


Late

by doctorwhoatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Heartbreak, M/M, Murder, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-24
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 05:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorwhoatson/pseuds/doctorwhoatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach. Sherlock Holmes is almost done hunting down Moriarty's men, so he decides to pay a visit to his best and only friend, but he isn't received the way he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Late

**Author's Note:**

> A little something I wrote on my phone a while ago. I didn't intend to publish it, but after the encouragement of a friend, I decided to edit it and share it. This (MIGHT) be the first of a series of short stories, all of them connected to this one.

It had been almost three years since Sherlock had faked his death at the bottom of St. Bart’s Hospital. His quest for Moriarty’s remaining agents was almost complete. Only a couple of them were left. He already had a few clues on their locations, and it shouldn’t take him too long in tracking them down and putting a bullet through their head like he had done with the rest. So, after much thought, he had finally gone to see John.

“I want nothing to do with you.”

His words had stabbed him painfully in the chest. He had never wanted to feel as welcome and accepted as much as he had at that moment. Three years in solitude and complete reclusion had made him ache for his friend’s companionship more than ever. It had become painful to be away from him.

“Leave.”

His joy at finally seeing his dear friend again had been squashed completely the minute John had opened the door. A look of surprise had crossed his former blogger’s features before suddenly turning into a mix of hurt and anger that pained Sherlock more than he had ever thought possible.

Sherlock shuddered at the memory and fresh tears began rolling down his flushed face. John had yelled at him and ordered him to go away and never come back. He had pushed him out of their flat, causing him to fall down the stairs. His arms had barely been able to hold on the railing before reaching the bottom. When he turned back to his friend, he was already gone and the door locked once again.

Sherlock had tried again the next day, but the door never opened. He had pleaded for him to talk to him, to forgive him. He had begged. But only silence had come to his ears. Not even Mrs. Hudson opened the door.

Apparently calling John on the phone had not been a good idea, either. He had barely spoken a word when the other line was cut.

Why? Why was John so angry with him? Had it really been that bad for him? Did all this really make John hate him this much? Did John really believe he was a fake?

Sherlock’s heart stopped.

Well, he had told him he was a fake. He told him to tell everybody he had lied. But he never thought John had really fallen for it. Deep down, he had somehow believed that John would always see the truth and stick to it. Stay by his side.

He had watched John visit his grave almost everyday during the whole first two years and beg to the heavens to send him back. Now that he was here again, why was John pushing him away like this?

There had to be a reason. There had to be! Emotion was clouding his reasoning. He needed to think. Think, Sherlock, think!

John visited his grave for two years, and then he stopped. Limp was back. John moved back into Baker Street a year ago. Mrs. Hudson didn’t open the door. Old newspaper outside the flat. The door. Not quite in its place. Removed, then put back. Someone broke in some time ago. John. Unlikely to attack like that. Guarded stance. Not using his cane. Limp gone…

No.

Quick look into the flat before John shoved him away. The flat had looked too messy. John never let that happen. He would always at least try to make the place look decent. Various objects scattered around the floor, including teacups that seemed to have been there for at least a week. Very unlike Mrs. Hudson to not clean it up and very unlike John to be that messy.

More importantly, he had pushed Sherlock off the stairs.

John wasn’t like this. The John he knew would have let him explain himself. The John he knew would have forgiven him. He was acting very strangely, almost as if…

Sherlock’s stomach dropped. 

-

John fell back on the couch. His breathing was hard and his sore muscles screamed in pain. 

“You were supposed to make him come here, Dr. Watson, not keep him away.”

“Right,” John huffed, a chuckle rippling through his chest, causing another flash of pain to cross his body. “You can go to hell.”

The two figures shared a serious look and walked towards the injured doctor. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

John sighed and turned to the empty seat across the room. His seat. He closed his eyes and smiled, his aching body suddenly not important. “Yeah.”

-

“You idiot.”

Sherlock shifted in his seat. It was quiet. It was always quiet in this part of the hospital. The only sound came from the several machines that were currently fighting to keep the man in front of him alive. Sherlock reached for his friend’s hand and held it firmly between his. 

“You’re going to be alright.”

John gave him a small smile and held weakly onto the detective’s long fingers.

“We’ll be out of here soon. I’ll take you anywhere you want. We’ll go far away from here. I’ll take you everywhere. We’ll travel forever. Together.”

Sherlock kept promising everything he could think of to his friend. He wasn’t really listening to what was coming out of his mouth. He could have said anything. It really didn’t matter. John was never coming out of this place alive. 

“Sherlock-“

“Go away.” Sherlock’s voice, so filled with pain, sent a cold shiver to his brother. “I don’t care what you have to say, I don’t care. You were supposed to take care of him, you were supposed to keep him safe.”

“I’m sorry.” Mycroft knew there was nothing he could do anymore, and for all he knew, he didn’t have a little brother anymore. Sherlock would never even get near him after this. He had failed him in the most important task ever given to him. He had let a tiny detail sip by and he had destroyed him. 

“And leave them to me.” Sherlock murmured, his eyes glued to John again. Mycroft nodded and turned to the door.

John’s eyes stared into Sherlock’s. He couldn’t talk anymore, but he didn’t need to. Everything was clear in his eyes and he knew Sherlock would be able to read it perfectly. It’s not anyone’s fault. It’s alright. I missed you.

“I’ll never let anything hurt you again, John.”

I love you.

He wasn’t sure at exactly what moment his words started becoming sobs or when he started screaming. The nurses burst into the room and pulled him away from the bed, causing him to drop the hand that had long since turned cold. He cursed and threw his arms around, breaking free from everyone and running back to the sleeping man. He called his name, he cried, he screamed. 

His eyes never opened again.

-

Nothing made sense after that. Sherlock’s last conscious thought was during John’s funeral. Everything else became a blur of faces, blood, screams and lights.

The next few days were received with shocking newspaper headlines. Two vicious murders, one killer, one message written all over the crime scenes.

Rache.

Sherlock smiled at his reflection.

Psychopath. Maybe they had all been right after all.

The blue and red lights that came from outside the windows danced around his flat. Their flat. The pounding on the door and the detective’s name echoed through the room, but the man didn’t move. After several attempts, the door was finally forcefully swung open only to reveal the room’s only occupant, comfortably sitting at his usual spot. His empty eyes stared back at the perpetrators with a small smile painted on his bloodstained lips. His hand still holding onto the trigger.

-

“You are such an idiot.”

Sherlock chuckled and turned to the voice behind him.

“Am I?”

John stood in front of him, arms crossed. Around him people were scrambling around the flat like ants. Paramedics, reporters, detectives. None of them seemed to notice the two figures facing each other.

“Yes.”

He shrugged. “How is your leg?”

“Good.”

“Your shoulder?”

“Sherlock-”

Sherlock’s gaze fixed upon his friend. His hands ached to touch him, to reassure him that, this time, the man in front of him was real and not just another deceiving act of his mind. Sherlock walked towards the shorter man and softly pressed his palm over his chest, craving to feel the heart he so long ago had lost. But there was nothing.

“It’s silent.”

John smiled softly and reached for Sherlock’s hand. “Let’s go.”

“Where to?”

The man only rolled his eyes and tugged at the former consulting detective’s arm. “I was waiting for you. You said you would take me anywhere I wanted. That we would travel forever.”

Sherlock smiled. “I did, didn’t I?”

John slipped his hand into Sherlock’s and the strangest feeling of completion overtook the couple. Only then did they realize their surroundings had changed, and that they had finally reached their ending point. Together.

“I’m still mad at you, though.” John muttered, taking his first step into their never-ending journey.

“That’s okay.”

And Sherlock followed.


End file.
